by Guy Adams
Shining shook his head. He had always denied that, had insisted to Toby that it wasn’t the case, but maybe…
‘I don’t really know what I thought,’ he admitted. ‘Perhaps I tried not to think about it at all.’
‘But it wants you, it is your enemy.’
‘Then it can join the queue. Besides, when I made our deal I was a young man. I’ve avoided it this long. I think… thought… that I would always stay one step ahead.’
‘You’re not. It’s a point of principle to him now. He will have his way. He will win. It’s important to him.’
‘Then I suppose he’s not so different to us, is he?’
Ryska nearly shrugged. It was slightly over the top, unnatural, but the emotion was conveyed. ‘He wants to be no different at all. He wants to be just like you. To be you.’
‘Which never did make any sense, to be so powerful, to possess the abilities he does and want to restrict himself. The things he can do! Flesh is just clay to him, he can heal mortal wounds, he can even duplicate it, and the consciousness inside it.’
Shining was thinking of Fratfield again, who had escaped Section 37 only by accepting what the higher power had called a ‘doppelgänger contract’, doubling himself up into two, distinct Fratfields. One had been killed, the other…
‘Flesh is easy to us,’ she agreed. ‘Externally at least. It is all just matter. We can rearrange it, manipulate it, build with it. But he wants to wear it, to feel the sensations that come with it. He doesn’t want to play with clay, he wants to know what being clay is really like. Power is something that only makes sense by comparison. To you, the things he can do, the mental gifts he possesses, that is power because it’s something you don’t have. To him, you are powerful. You feel, you taste, you grow, you die. Your bodies thrive and rot. You’re solid, packed full of animal strength. You can break things. He does like to break things.’
‘You’re telling me.’ Shining looked at her. ‘Why are you telling me? You say you want to help? Then get rid of him. Take him back to wherever it is you come from and leave us alone.’
‘But that’s precisely the point. I can’t, because I don’t have the power. How can I force him to do anything? We’re not like you. We’re…’
‘Insubstantial?’
‘Consciousness. Just that. We’re thought. We’re mind. To force something is the province of flesh. Thought cannot fight, it can only question.’
‘But I can’t fight him either. If I attack him while he’s in possession of someone else all I’m doing is attacking the host, not the consciousness, all he has to do is leave. I thought that when he really inhabited someone, took full possession… You said, “Is this now?” What did you mean?’
The sudden change of subject seemed to confuse her for a moment. She stared at him for a couple of seconds before answering.
‘Moving from my plane to yours, it’s hard to be precise. Time is not so linear to us. I have found you before but it was never the right time. Sometimes you were younger, sometimes it was too late.’
‘Too late? That’s reassuring.’
‘You must make it that he can’t leave. You must give him what he wants.’
‘I don’t understand.’
Ryska began tapping her nails on the table. That nervous twitch of hers. ‘Understand what?’ she asked.
‘I don’t understand what you…’ Shining looked at her hand, her tapping fingers. The other presence was gone. ‘It doesn’t matter.’
She shook her head. ‘Are you ready to carry on? That old body of yours stretched its legs enough?’
He smiled. Wasn’t that the important question? When would he finally let this old body give up stretching its legs?
‘What’s funny?’ she asked.
‘Nothing really,’ he admitted. ‘Far from it, but sometimes you have to smile, don’t you? The alternative’s much worse.’
TWENTY-THREE
I decided there was little I could do but go back to Alexandra’s flat. I needed to think, to try and decide what my next step should be. I could just return to West Berlin, but that would be giving up and what would I have achieved? I’d seen Robie, yes, and there was no evidence to support his being a traitor. But there was little evidence of anything else either. To my un-blinkered eyes, it seemed clear that something was possessing people, making them act against their wishes. The Russian soldier, Grauber, my would-be postman assassin. Finally, of course, poor Alexandra, throwing herself to her death even though she had no idea why. But there was no way any of my superiors were going to accept a report about that.
Perhaps they were right. Sometimes, accepting the preternatural is no help at all. Yes, I could accept the notion of these people being possessed but by what and why? Expressing an opinion about it at this stage would get me nowhere – I just didn’t know enough.
What could I tell them about Robie? That he was on the run, afraid for his life. He clearly believed that whatever it was that was possessing people had him in its sights. It was all nonsense. It was as insubstantial as air. They would send me back to England in disgrace, and Robie would be no better off than he had been before I came.
I had to stay, I had to find out more. I had to find him. Nothing else would do.
I stopped off to buy a change of clothes. When the shop assistant seemed suspicious, I spun him a tale about the border control having confiscated my bag for no reason. That seemed to work: he shook his head sadly as if it was the most common thing in the world. ‘They are a disgrace sometimes,’ he said, clearly deciding that, as a foreigner – and one who had not had enough clout with the authorities to even maintain ownership of a spare shirt – I was unlikely to cause trouble over him expressing such opinions. ‘They do as they please. They take your money, your belongings. I think they share it between themselves.’
‘Well, I don’t imagine they’ll be fighting over my socks,’ I told him. ‘They were nothing special.’
He laughed and bagged up my purchases. On the spur of the moment, I dashed away again to look at their winter coats, adding a padded parka and a pair of gloves to my order.
‘More snow soon,’ he said, by way of endorsing my decision. ‘They say it’s going to get much colder in the next couple of days.’
‘I don’t suppose you sell brandy as well?’ I joked.
He laughed. I was doing a marvellous job of making friends with him. ‘Nature’s thermal vest, eh?’ he suggested.
I took my bags and walked the rest of the way to Alexandra’s flat. At least she had given me a spare set of keys. Without Engel around to negotiate locked doors, I would have been stuck out in the cold without them.
Upstairs, I dumped my bags and took another shower, as much to warm myself as anything else. My stomach was still tender from where Robie had punched me, and I tenderly soaped the bruise he’d left me with. I tried to be angry at him for it but, in truth, I couldn’t manage it. It had hurt like hell – still did – but, despite his panicked and confused state, I still trusted Robie enough to believe he had done only what he had thought was necessary. I just hoped I could track him down and point out how wrong he was.
I put on my new clothes, trying to convince myself that jeans and a heavy jumper were extremely practical and, after all, what better way to stay undercover than for August Shining to walk the street in denim? I raided Alexandra’s drinks cabinet and sat down to sip at vodka and think.
Where would Robie hide? He knew the city but was clearly trying to avoid his normal haunts. Alexandra had given him money, probably not a great deal, she was clearly not as solvent as she once was. A rich person doesn’t say ‘as much as I can’ when discussing funds. She had given him as much as she had to hand, most likely whatever had been in her purse. Probably not enough for a hotel. But then I was jumping to conclusions… grasping at straws. Stick to the facts, let the wild supposition come in its own time.
He hadn’t shaved. He’d been wearing the same clothes for some time. This wasn’t in itself su
rprising, as he’d clearly dropped everything and run. This wasn’t a man who’d packed a toiletry bag before going off the grid. Except…
Except Lucas Robie had always fallen on his feet for one simple reason: he had a gift that enabled him to do so. He charmed his way out of every problem. So why was he in such dire straits? If he wanted a bed for the night then all he had to do was ask for one. If he wanted a change of clothes then he need to do no more than walk into a clothing store and lift one off the peg. Money? Money wasn’t the vital commodity for Lucas it was for the rest of us. His belly need never go empty, his throat never dry. So why had he wanted money? Because he was trying to avoid using his gift? It wasn’t something he could turn on and off; that was, after all, what had driven him close to suicide all those years ago. So why the money?
I didn’t know.
Lucas’s gift. Why had he even asked Alexandra for help? He didn’t need her. He’d clearly gone to every effort to avoid being close to her at the park, had all but ignored her. Why? He had been desperate to avoid me too. Because I might otherwise have shared her fate? ‘It wouldn’t be fair,’ he’d said. ‘Especially after it’s proven how far it’s willing to…’ Willing to go? It – whatever ‘it’ was – had killed Alexandra, that was clearly the assumption, despite his begging it not to do so.
Lucas’s gift.
I couldn’t tear my thoughts away from it but I was going around in circles. I topped up my glass and tried to clarify my thoughts.
Lucas was avoiding using his gift. The only way he could do that was… There was no way he could avoid it; whenever he met someone (bar the odd exception like me, but we really were few and far between) they found themselves devoted to him.
The only way Lucas could avoid using his gift was…
By not being near people. By avoiding people altogether. But he’d agreed to meet Alexandra in the crowded park… so did that wash? It still might have done, Lucas had avoided direct contact with anyone, keeping his head down, withdrawn. A crowded place was beneficial if he hadn’t wanted to draw attention to their meeting, basic spycraft.
East Berlin was full of crowded places. He could have met her at any of them.
I was getting there, piece by piece, question by counter-question.
Lucas was avoiding people. But to meet Alexandra he had to select a busy location. East Berlin was full of crowded places. So there was another reason why he’d chosen the park. He’d chosen the park because…
Lucas was living rough somewhere.
Lucas was avoiding people.
Lucas had lost me in the forest around the Kulturpark.
The forest next to the Kulturpark.
The forest that was isolated despite being close to the city.
Lucas was living rough in the forest.
It was a guess, but it worked. It matched with the facts. Frankly it was better than nothing.
As to why he was avoiding using his gift, I could find that out once I found him.
I decided to put some food in me before returning to the Plänterwald forest. I had no idea how long I’d be searching and the snow was continuing to fall as I stepped out of Alexandra’s apartment block into the street outside. There was a little bar at the end of the—
TWENTY-FOUR
‘Ah!’ Shining recoiled from the table, nearly tumbling out of his chair.
‘What?’ Ryska jumped to her feet in surprise, looking around and reaching for a weapon she immediately realised she wasn’t wearing.
‘Can’t you see him?’
Ryska looked around her. There was nothing. They were alone in the room.
‘What are you talking about?’ she shouted.
‘He’s right…’ Shining stared just beyond Ryska at the figure hanging a foot or so above the floor. The man was screaming at him, as if desperate for Shining to hear him. His face was distorted, the air around him rippling. It was like looking at your reflection in a pond after a stone had hit the water. Still, he recognised the face, yes, it was clearing…
‘Jamie?’ Shining asked. ‘Jamie is that you?’
And then the figure vanished and Shining was left staring at thin air.
‘Is this supposed to help your story seem more convincing?’ Ryska asked, her voice heavy with sarcasm, ‘because I hate to tell you but right now I’m thinking you’re completely off your head.’
The door opened and Jennings stepped in.
‘Food’s up,’ he announced. He looked at Shining, still staring at nothing, his face agonised, then to Ryska who appeared to be a hair’s breadth from beating the old man. ‘Just in time too by the looks of it.’
TWENTY FIVE
Cassandra Grace tugged the rubber head off her shoulders and flung it in the general direction of the director. She couldn’t be certain of her aim because she hadn’t been able to wear her glasses under the costume, but the head certainly hit someone because she heard a cry of pain. ‘Now you know how heavy it is!’ she shouted. ‘Full of the memories of war and the misery of being unable to spawn on our home world and forced to come to Earth for sex slaves! I mean… Earth! Have you actually tried to get a decent boyfriend on this planet? No wonder the Xtraxillons are killing everybody!’
She stormed off, ignoring the angry shouting behind her. If they couldn’t take her truth then they could just piss off and find someone else for the part. It was their loss.
She picked up her bag from the dressing room, just managing to catch a bus back towards town by running hell for leather out of the quarry and towards the main road. She was damned if she was going to sit in the minibus and wait for the rest of the cast to come in and tell her what trouble she’d caused. They didn’t understand her either. They were only here to cash a cheque. Were there no real artists left these days?
‘What are you supposed to be?’ asked the old man sat next to her on the bus, prodding at her latex belly. She probably should have taken the time to change out of the bodysuit, but when you’ve decided to storm out you just have to stick to your guns.
‘I’m Queen of the Xtraxillons,’ she told him, ‘on Earth to gather breeding stock.’
‘Oh aye.’ He thought about this for a moment. ‘Is there a medical exam?’
‘Not really. By all accounts we just go for brainless cheesecake, especially if they’ve had a guest role in Hollyoaks.’
‘You want to be careful,’ he told her. ‘You’ll get nowhere if you’re not selective. Don’t want to end up with a load of deformed babies, do you?’
‘Are you an expert on breeding, then?’ she asked him, peering over the wide neck of the bodysuit.
His face took on a wistful air and he scratched at his thinning scalp. ‘Not these days, the wife has issues. It makes her feel “proximity-challenged”. I used to breed spaniels, though.’
‘Good for you. I like spaniels.’
The bus eventually pulled into Brentford and she left her new best friend and spaniel expert and caught a train to Ealing Broadway. On the train she finally had the space to strip off the hot, claustrophobic body of Queen Cthar of the Xtraxillons and put on her normal clothes. There were a few complaints from the fellow passengers but she explained that her body was just one of the tools of her craft and therefore couldn’t be deemed offensive when exhibited on public transport and besides, these pants were new.
Dragging the bodysuit all the way home was annoying but these things were expensive and she had every intention of repainting it and wearing it the next time she put on one of her theatrical evenings.
‘Hello house,’ she shouted, as she clambered through the front door and up the stairs to her flat. There was a low murmur from the couple that rented downstairs. They were so impolite. She bet they wouldn’t be so shy once she was famous – they’d soon be returning her greetings then.
She finally got the suit through her front door and sat it down in the bathroom. It would get in the way when she wanted a shower – and having sweated in it for hours she wanted one now – but there was nowhe
re else it could possibly fit.
First there must be a glass of wine. Life could not possibly continue without one. She turned on her phone and scrolled through the several angry texts, emails and voicemails, lost in threats, insults and demands as she shuffled into the kitchen and scrabbled around in the fridge for the bottle she knew should be in there. Still staring at the screen, her hand waved unproductively around in the largely empty space, singularly failing to fall on anything wine-shaped. She borrowed it back for a minute to wipe at her eyes – why did people always have to be so horrible? Finally, she stopped looking at the awful, mean words and stared into the fridge. The wine wasn’t there. She stamped her foot and wailed in frustration at her day. She’d bought a bottle, thinking it would be a well-earned treat after a hard day being all successful finally in a definitely, actual, proper movie for which she was being paid and everything. So why was it not there?
‘Are you looking for this?’
Grace gave a squeal of surprise and nearly fell backwards into the fridge.
There was an old woman in her kitchen. Why on earth was there an old woman in her kitchen? An old woman that appeared to be drinking her bloody wine.
The old woman raised the bottle towards Grace by way of a toast, then took a large swig out of it. ‘I hope you don’t mind me letting myself in. Spare key on the door jamb really isn’t a terribly clever hiding place.’
‘I keep losing… What are you doing in my house?’
‘Shush, darling,’ said the woman that still was not altogether April Shining. ‘We don’t want to disturb the neighbours.’
‘Fuck the neigh…’ But she didn’t say any more because that was when the woman turned the bottle around and smacked her in the face with it.
Grace stumbled backwards, her foot slipping in the trail of spilled cheap hock, and crashed back into the open fridge.
‘I told you!’ the old woman hissed. ‘Shush!’ And she continued to pound at Grace’s head with the bottle until there was nothing left but a shattered stub of its glass neck.
